


To Break The Chain I Forged in Life

by labelladonna99



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-21 23:04:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13153896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labelladonna99/pseuds/labelladonna99
Summary: As the years trapped inside the wall wear on, Peter and Sylar need a little Christmas....right this very minute.





	To Break The Chain I Forged in Life

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you'll enjoy this moment of happy Christmas fluff. I had hoped to get it posted earlier but now that I think of it, it's good to have something sweet for that post-holiday let down. Merry Christmas!

On their first Christmas together, Peter punched Sylar in the face, splitting his lip. “So much for peace on earth, Petrelli,” Sylar had mocked, sneering through his blood-smeared teeth and ignoring the blunt, pounding pain. “Punching a guy on Christmas. What would baby Jesus think?”

He watched with smug satisfaction as the realization dawned on Peter. The anger that had knit Peter’s eyebrows over flashing eyes faded. In his dark clothes against the dreary gray landscape of the overcast afternoon, Peter was like a black and white photo, except for the splotches of color on his cheeks as if the photo had been spot-tinted.

 “It’s...Christmas?” Peter deflated like a little kid who hadn’t found his heart’s desire underneath the Christmas tree. Sylar wasn’t sure if it was Peter’s Catholic guilt that made his shoulders droop or whether being here, with Sylar, on Christmas, instead of with people who loved him, was what had Peter looking so depressed. Either way, pathetic wasn’t a look that suited him. Sylar almost felt sorry for the guy.

“Yes. It is. I suppose it’s easy to forget when I didn’t bother to deck the halls for you. You’ll have to forgive me that I haven’t been in the habit of celebrating holidays. With apologies to The Waitresses, Christmas by myself hasn’t been much fun.”

Peter stared at him, expressionless, and then turned and walked away, his rapid bow-legged stride transporting him quickly out of Sylar’s sight. Sylar sighed. “Well, there’s always next year.”

On their second Christmas together, Peter disappeared for two days. The last Sylar had seen of him had been early on the morning of Christmas eve. Sylar had found Peter in the diner, having breakfast. Peter sat at the same table near the door that he and Sylar shared during those rare times when they weren’t fighting. From the angle at which Sylar approached, he could observe Peter without being seen. It was unusual to see Peter in his natural, unguarded state, neither aware of Sylar’s scrutiny nor reacting to his presence. He looked so innocent. From the set of his shoulders and the way he stared into empty space, Peter seemed sad, but at the same time, relaxed. There was no worry or anger on his face. That changed as soon as Sylar stepped into view.

 Peter held his coffee cup to his lips, his hazel eyes wary as he watched over the mug’s rim while Sylar approached him. Swallowing his coffee and continuing to follow Sylar with his eyes, Peter said, “I’m not in the mood for any of your shit today, Sylar, so don’t start.”

 “I wasn’t going to start anything. I was just going to wish you - “

“Don’t. Don’t say another word.” Peter held a hand up, shaking his head as he put the mug down and rose from his chair. He shouldered past Sylar. “I’m taking a walk. Alone.”

“Peter, I - “

“Stop talking. Just stop.” Peter yanked the door of the diner open to make his silent departure. Sylar had no idea where he was going and he wasn’t surprised when Peter didn’t return to his apartment later that day or the next. No, he wasn’t surprised at all, just dejected that apparently Petrelli still couldn’t stand the sight of him. They were still beating the crap out of each other on a fairly regular basis; perhaps Peter was seeking to avoid a repeat of the previous Christmas. Sylar had lost count by now of how many Christmases he had spent utterly alone. He should be used to it by now and couldn’t explain to himself why the loss of Peter’s presence left him so bereft. It wasn’t as if he cared about Peter, anyway, the sanctimonious little bastard.

 By their third Christmas together, they were getting along better - better being a relative term. The constant fist fights had mellowed to bickering, sniping, pushing and shoving, interspersed with occasional civil conversation. When they did fight, it was less violent than their past and over quickly. Mostly they passed the time exploring the city and wearing themselves out with activity to channel the suppressed aggression. Sometimes it was even pleasant. Peter had picked up a guitar from a music store in midtown and was teaching Sylar to play. Sylar was enjoying it enough to have gotten a guitar of his own, an instrument made for a left-handed person.

It was several days before Christmas and they had been arguing in Sylar’s apartment, the guitars abandoned in the heat of their angry words. Sylar no longer remembered what the argument had been about, but he did recall that Peter called a halt to it.

“Look, we’re not either of us who we would choose to spend the holidays with,” Peter had said, eyeing Sylar across the coffee table. “So how about we call a truce. Let’s not argue. We can just - let’s play these guitars for tonight and then, for the next few days, until Christmas is over, I’ll stay away. Okay? You do your thing and I’ll do mine.”

Sylar sniffed, going for haughty to hide his irritation. “That’s fine. It’s not like I expected us to trim a tree or go caroling together. I’m hardly the ‘rest ye merry gentlemen type.’ Abilities pretty much put an end to any of that.” Everything he had said was true. Sylar couldn’t remember the last time he had celebrated Christmas, with other people or even on his own. So why did he feel so damn disappointed? It was ridiculous.

Ever the empath, Peter’s gaze softened. “How did you used to spend Christmas? You know, before…”

“With my parents, obviously,” Sylar snapped. “After Martin left, it was just me and mom. Sometimes there were other people, aunts, uncles, cousins. Some of mom’s friends from church would come over. They were always trying to fix me up with their daughters or nieces.” Sylar rolled his eyes at the awkward memories he was conjuring.

Peter smiled his lopsided grin. “How did that work out?”

“It didn’t.” Sylar didn’t return the smile. The conversation was veering into personal territory that Sylar wasn’t interested in covering.

“No stories to share? Blind dates gone bad?”

“They were all bad.” Sylar arched an eyebrow at Peter, fixing him with a challenging stare. “You of all people should know I’m not much fun to be around.”

“That’s not true, Sylar. You’re a pretty interesting guy. You can be fun when you’re not so angry all the time.” Peter’s tone and earnest face had all the hallmarks of sincerity but Sylar wasn’t buying it.

“Sure, Peter. I’m endlessly fascinating. That’s why you’re always trying so hard to figure me out. I’m just a barrel of laughs.” Sylar turned away, uncomfortable with Peter’s curious hazel eyes drilling into him. “No more talking.” He picked up his guitar, arranging his fingers on the frets before glancing back at Peter who was still watching him with a now-sober expression.

Sylar nodded towards the empath’s guitar. “Play.”

True to his word, Peter hid out until after Christmas, apparently in his apartment though Sylar didn’t check. Unbeknownst to his brooding companion, Sylar’s gift to Peter was to honor his privacy this one time. Peter’s birthday came and went and Sylar pondered whether they aged here or whether it was like relativity, with time passing somewhere out there but not for the two lonely prisoners. By Christmas day, he was bored beyond endurance, having exhausted his supply of timepieces that needed his ministrations. Shrugging into his pea coat and pulling a scarf around his neck, Sylar headed out into the cold to visit the library.

He found what he was looking for after only a few minutes of searching. He remembered the story from childhood but he had never read the original. Tucking the book under his arm, he scanned the shelves for other selections. He figured there would likely be many more times that Peter would abandon him to his own devices and he might as well be prepared to keep himself busy. Back in his apartment, Sylar made himself a cup of hot cocoa, his only treat to mark the special day, and settled down in a chair with his book. Opening to the title page, he read: “ _A Christmas Carol_. By Charles Dickens.” Sylar closed the book shortly after his many clocks had tolled the hour of midnight. No ghosts had visited him except the ones that lived in his memories.

As Sylar and Peter’s fourth Christmas together approached, a spark of hope fluttered on a tiny breath of change. True, the kiss he and Peter had shared several months ago hadn’t been repeated. Even as it was happening, Sylar had known that Peter letting his guard down was only a momentary thing. Peter hadn’t forgiven him, but he had promised to help Sylar and had kept his word. He didn’t always like Peter’s methods. No, scratch that. He never liked them. It was difficult, embarrassing, gut-wrenching, and painful to submit himself to Peter’s scrutiny. But he understood it was necessary to take his lumps, to put up with Peter’s questions, tolerate his brooding and flashes of anger and even, still, his hate.

Did Peter see that Sylar had traveled very far from the man he had been when he took Nathan’s life with a flick of his finger? If he did, he gave no indication that he recognized that Sylar wasn’t that guy anymore. For the first time in so long, maybe ever, Sylar had someone in his life who mattered to him beyond what he could grab for himself. Oh, he still wanted things from Peter, the same things he’d wanted almost from the first time he had laid eyes on the man. Now, he wanted things _for_ Peter, too. He had no way to show him, though, and Christmas was coming. All he could do was keep his promise to help Peter with his mission, to hammer at the wall beside him or, at least, keep him company. He could watch and listen and learn what Peter needed.

Sylar waited until Thanksgiving was well past before broaching the subject of Christmas. Grief was beginning to encroach on Peter’s moods the way it always did this time of year. It was Sylar’s fault and there was no way to fix it but maybe he could ease Peter through it. It had snowed the night before and Sylar had stood by his living room window and watched the fat, wet flakes fluttering to the ground. He couldn’t go to sleep until he knew that they would stick. In the morning, there were several inches of the white stuff decorating the ground outside. Sylar had risen early, hoping to catch Peter before he woke up to see it for himself.

He knocked at Peter’s door and waited. He heard shuffling on the other side and Peter opened the door, groggy and rumpled in that just rolled out of bed way. His dark hair was sticking up in several places and his eyes were still heavy with sleep. Sylar was tempted to forego his plan for the day and lure Peter back to bed, with him. Not that it would work but it would be fun to try.

“Sylar, it’s not even morning. What are you doing here? Are you having the nightmares again?”

“Nope. Come with me, Peter. I have something to show you.” Sylar gently took Peter by the wrist and pulled him over to the window where the morning light was just beginning to paint over the darkness outside and the pristine white blanket made the city look new and full of promise. Peter looked out the window and then back at Sylar. “What? The snow? That’s what you wanted me to see?”

“It’s the first snow of the season. Get dressed. I made breakfast. Pancakes, in fact. And I have all the accoutrements we need to make a snowman. Aren’t you tired of it just being you and me here? We need some company.”

Peter stared at him. “Sylar, I think you’ve finally gone loopy on me. But okay, I’m game if you are.”

They had ended up making a snowwoman instead. Peter insisted that there was more than enough testosterone between the two of them and that what they needed was a woman’s touch.

“Your problem is that you’re horny. But there’s no need to settle for this cold bitch when you’ve got a warm and willing body right here.” Sylar spread his hands in front of his torso and smiled a lascivious grin. Peter grinned back. “Oh, is that my problem? I thought it was that I was woken up at dawn by a madman.”

“A madman who feeds you your favorite breakfast. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

 “No, I’m not,” Peter said, stamping his feet to clear the snow from his shoes. “I do appreciate it. I’m freezing, though. Let’s go back inside and get some more coffee.” After all this time together, the innocent touch of Peter’s gloved hand to Sylar’s wool-clad elbow still managed to send a thrill down his spine. He matched his stride to Peter’s and smiled to himself at the double set of footprints they made in the snow.

Having fed and entertained his companion and now pouring him a hot cup of coffee to warm him, Sylar launched into the topic he had been waiting to discuss. “Peter, to say this is a tough time of year for you would be a gross understatement. I know it’s my fault. If I had a thousand years to atone - “

“Don’t start in with the apologies again. We’ve been over this.”

Sylar glanced at Peter nervously. “Alright. I’ll cut to the chase. I want a Christmas tree. I haven’t had one in….well, a very long time. I don’t know how you feel about it. That’s why I’m asking.”

Peter’s head tilted and Sylar was relieved to see that he didn’t appear angry, just confused. “You’re asking me if you can have a tree? Where?”

“Here. In my apartment.”

“It’s your place, Sylar. You can do whatever you want.”

“But you’re here all the time. I want to be...respectful.”

Peter nodded, dropping his gaze to his coffee cup. “I appreciate that. It’s okay. I’m - I’m not over it. I’ll never be over it. But...I’m healing.” He raised his eyes to Sylar’s face. “And as weirdly ironic and fucked up as it sounds, you’re helping. I guess it’s time to go on living. So I’m okay with the tree. I won’t help you put it up though….don’t ask me to do that.”

“I don’t expect that. Thank you for understanding. It means a lot to me.”

“Good. I’m glad I can do something for you.”

“You do a lot, Peter. More than you know.” Sylar held Peter’s gaze with his own until Peter looked away and cleared his throat. “I guess if you’re going to work on your tree, I’ll head back to my place. I’ve got some things I want to do today anyway. Thanks for the coffee and all.”

Sylar spent the rest of the day scouting for a tree to chop down that would be small enough to fit in his apartment, lugging it home and then acquiring a stand and decorations. For only the millionth time since his imprisonment here, he wished that there were working radios or recordings, but had to content himself with his own rusty singing voice for the fa-la-las to accompany his efforts. A part of him felt ridiculous. He was once the most powerful man in the world and now he was putting up a Christmas tree and humming carols to himself. Maybe he didn’t age here but there was no question that he had changed.

Peter didn’t return until dinner the next day, which was fine since it had taken the entire afternoon and evening for Sylar to get the tree, lights and ornaments. He hadn’t started decorating until the next morning. Peter admired the tree politely but in the weeks prior to the arrival of Christmas, he found reasons to absent himself from Sylar’s apartment. Sylar worried about that but he couldn’t bring himself to intrude upon Peter’s private feelings to ask. _I wonder if it’s too much for him, even though he agreed to it. I’ll make it up to him, somehow._

Peter making himself scarce gave Sylar plenty of time to scour the city for the perfect gift. It would be his first tangible present since the ill-fated offering of the comic book back when Peter had first arrived. What do you give a guy who lives in an empty city with nobody else but yourself for company? He picked up and discarded a baseball glove, an autographed bat and a book about the all-time great baseball players. No. Baseball was something Peter had shared with Nathan. It wasn’t Sylar’s place to give him such gifts. Peter already had a guitar. He didn’t need another one. But that gave Sylar an idea.

The day before Peter’s birthday, which was two days before Christmas, Sylar and Peter had dinner at their favorite Mexican place. It was done up to look like an adobe, with faux clay walls, brightly colored tapestries and wall sconces that held thick, always lit pillar candles that never burned away, just another odd feature of this strange world that they hardly noticed anymore. Over tequila and tacos, they talked aimlessly about anything but the approaching holiday. Sylar was nervous. He wanted to invite Peter over for Christmas but he fully expected the usual hibernation routine until it was all over. How could he ask Peter to spend such a painful holiday with him when he was the cause of all of Peter’s suffering? He wouldn’t. He would have to give Peter his gifts some other time, after Peter had taken his time alone to grieve the loss of Nathan and the other people he was missing in his life.  

“You okay, Sylar?” Peter asked. In the candlelight, his eyes were warm and dark as they appraised Sylar.

“I’m fine. Why?” Sylar did his best to look unruffled by the question and the familiar face across the table, the only living face he had seen in six years. It still never failed to captivate him.

“You seem kinda jumpy.”

“Too much caffeine today, maybe.” Sylar feigned nonchalance with a casual one-shoulder shrug.

“Ah, that would explain it,” Peter said. “So. Tomorrow’s my birthday.”   
  
“Yes, I know. Happy birthday.”

“Thanks. I thought maybe, if it’s okay with you, you might keep me company? I haven’t had anyone to spend my birthday with in….well, I’ve lost track.”

Sylar understood that only too well. Abilities had forced them to live like nomads, unmoored from the routines and touchstones that guided normal people’s lives. “Sure, Peter. That would be great. What did you want to do?”

 “I don’t know. We’ll figure something out.”

After lunch the next day, they strolled uptown for Peter’s birthday outing. It was strange to be in Rockefeller Center so close to Christmas without the enormous lit-up tree in the plaza. There were no golden angels blaring trumpets and the hordes of tourists that normally made the sidewalks surrounding the plaza virtually impassable were absent. Apparently none of this bothered Peter the people-loving empath. He wanted to check out the NBC broadcast studios, stage sets and newsrooms. None of the television equipment worked but it was fun to go behind the scenes where so many iconic broadcasts originated. “I can’t believe we’ve never done this before...this has been here all this time, same as us,” Peter said.

Later they had dinner in the Rainbow Room, where Peter ate lobster and drank far too much champagne. They had drunk alcohol together before...a few beers, a couple of shots...enough to get a buzz but never so much that they were intoxicated. Drunkenness between two people with so much baggage, much of it having to do with each other, was never a good idea.

“Come on, Sylar, keep up with me, buddy,” Peter said, pouring more champagne into Sylar’s glass. Sylar made a show of drinking it but he had already decided that somebody needed to be the designated adult here and apparently that somebody was him. He had never been a big drinker anyway. After dinner, Peter wanted to visit the rooftop of 30 Rock. Of course….Peter and rooftops. The lights of the city went out shortly after dark in Peter and Sylar’s New York, making the view from the rooftop lose its luster fairly soon after they arrived.

Peter suggested they go tour Radio City instead. After checking out the backstage areas and dressing rooms, they investigated the hydraulic system that raised and lowered various parts of the stage. Like all computers in their city, the one controlling the stages didn’t work, so they were only able to inspect the machinery but not operate it. The stage curtains, however, were controlled by motors and winches and the two men were able to experiment with opening and closing all of the four-ton curtain’s sections. While Sylar marveled at the intricate mechanisms, Peter, thoroughly trashed after downing about six glasses of champagne, ran out onto the stage and began thanking the non-existent audience for coming. When he kicked up his heels like a Rockette, Sylar doubled over with laughter. It didn’t last long, though, as Peter nearly tumbled from the stage and Sylar had to dive across the expanse between himself and Peter to drive him back from the edge.

“That’s it, Petrelli,” he said. “Birthday outing is over. You’re drunk and I’m taking you home.” Should he be worried about Peter drinking himself into a stupor? It was so much more like Nathan than Peter and it made Sylar question why Peter had done it. Was spending his birthday with Sylar such an awful prospect that he needed to be smashed to endure it? Well, he was the one who had invited Sylar to spend the day with him.

Peter began to sober up on the walk home, and by the halfway point, he no longer needed Sylar’s arm around his waist to keep himself upright. Sylar mourned the loss of Peter’s warmth and the feel of their bodies touching. Blocks from their apartments, Peter stopped to puke in a trashcan. Sylar was amused that the other man retained the good manners not to vomit on the street even in a forlorn city where nobody would have had to step around or clean his mess. He puked several more times on the way home, making Sylar glad after all that Peter had stopped hanging on to him.

“Oh man, that was pretty dumb of me to drink all that champagne,” Peter said, miserably, as Sylar escorted him to his apartment. “You probably think I’m an idiot.”

“Nothing’s changed,” Sylar quipped, opening the door and guiding Peter to his bedroom. “Sit on the bed and I’ll help you get undressed.” Sylar removed Peter’s shoes and pants and maneuvered him under the covers then went to the bathroom for a trash can in case Peter needed to puke again. He made one more trip for a glass of water and two ibuprofen.

“Take these,” he commanded.

 Once he was settled in bed, Peter curled on his side with a hand pressed against his forehead. He was going to pay for all that drinking tomorrow, Sylar knew.

“I’m going now, Peter. I’ll check on you in the morning.”

Peter mumbled his thanks.

“You’re welcome. I hope you had a good birthday.” There was no answer. Peter was already asleep. Sylar couldn’t resist stepping closer to the bed and stretching out a hand to tousle his sleeping companion’s hair.

When Sylar went back late the next morning, Peter was up and around and apparently showered, given his wet hair and change of clothes. He was nursing a monster of a headache, though, and had little appetite. “You should eat some protein. It will make you feel better, even if you’re not hungry,” Sylar said. “I could make you scrambled eggs.”

“No, I’m fine. Just let me lie here and die,” Peter said, flopping onto the couch.

“I’ll leave you to it then, drama queen,” Sylar said, not bothering to suppress a smirk since Peter wasn’t looking at him anyway. Just as his hand touched the doorknob on his way out, Peter spoke.

 “See you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s Christmas, Peter.” Sylar answered, still facing the door. He realized he was stupidly holding his breath and made himself relax.

“I know that, Sylar. Time to go on living, remember?” Peter said quietly.  

“Oh. Right. I suppose I’ll see you then.”

“What time?” Peter asked. Sylar heard the sound of the couch springs squeaking and turned to find Peter sitting up and looking at him expectantly.

“One pm?”

“One pm it is.” Peter didn’t quite smile but his eyes had a happy crinkle in the outer corners. Sylar was glad Peter hadn’t smiled. The pressure of making tomorrow live up to that was too great.

 Sylar dithered around his apartment the next morning, feeling like a ball of raw, exposed nerve endings. What was Peter expecting of their first Christmas together - really together instead of holed up in their separate apartments? Should Sylar cook dinner or would it just be their usual casual hanging out and foraging for food? Was Peter going to brood all day as he usually did, subjecting Sylar to the misery he had caused? Sylar was nearly ill from the anticipation. His apartment was already spotless. He’d opted for cooking dinner and had run out that morning for the ingredients. The lasagna was ready to go into the oven. Several small gifts for Peter were wrapped and under the tree. The big gift couldn’t be wrapped so Sylar had settled for a big red bow on top of it.

He turned the Christmas tree’s lights on and admired his handiwork. It wasn’t fancy - that wasn’t his style. He had gone for a homey touch instead. He hoped that Peter approved of the way his apartment looked. It had been a lot of work to get it just right.

 Sylar answered Peter’s knock and accepted the package that Peter thrust into his hands. “It’s apple pie,” Peter said. “I know you like apples….and pie.” For several awkward moments they stood there and Sylar knew that they had to both be thinking of the same thing, a long-ago Thanksgiving dinner at Peter’s apartment, an unwelcome guest and a pumpkin pie. Sylar hadn’t touched pumpkin pie since. “Thank you, Peter. Come in.”

Sylar glanced around the apartment as Peter entered; the gift would be obvious as soon as Peter took a few more steps inside. He headed to the kitchen to put the pie on the counter.

“Sylar? Where’s all your stuff? The clocks and watches and your tools and all the bookshelves?”

Sylar exited the kitchen to find Peter still standing in the entry, looking around in bewilderment.  

“Well, um, Merry Christmas, Peter. This is for you.” Sylar gestured to the small upright piano that stood where a bookshelf had previously been. The piano had been partially hidden by the Christmas tree but now that Sylar had pointed it out, Peter looked over at it.

“I know it seems self-serving for it to be here but I couldn’t be sure I’d find one in your building and there was no way to search without making you suspicious. You’re here a lot, anyway.”

“Oh, wow, this is….wow. I love it. Thank you.” Peter walked towards the piano, his gaze bouncing back and forth from Sylar to the instrument. Standing in front of the piano, Peter ran his fingers along the keys. “It sounds great. But your whole apartment - you’ve changed everything.”

“I needed to make room for the piano,” Sylar explained. “And once I started, well, I know you hate clutter.” He finished with a shrug, as if it were no big deal.

 “But your books….?” Peter scanned the room, which now only held one bookshelf near the window.

“Most of them are in the hall. You didn’t notice? It’s not like I have to worry about anyone taking them. Some I returned to the library. They’ll always be there, waiting for me if I want to read them again.”

“No, I didn't notice. I was a little distracted. You didn’t get rid of your clocks and watches and stuff?” An anxious crease that Sylar couldn’t fathom appeared between Peter’s eyebrows.

“I’ve kept my favorites, as you can see. Some are on the dresser near the bed. I made space in a drawer for the tools and smaller pieces.”

“Oh man, Sylar. You did all this for me? This is really ironic. In fact I think I've read this story.” Sylar tipped his head to one side and gazed at Peter with an unvoiced question in his eyes. What the hell was Peter talking about?

“Hang on. There’s something for you in the hall.” Peter shook his head, grinning. “This is crazy. Give me a minute and you’ll see.”

Peter went out to the hall and a moment later, he backed into the apartment dragging a piece of furniture. “Give me a hand with this, will you? I don't want to scratch your floor.”

Sylar squeezed past the furniture in the doorway and grabbed the end opposite Peter. Together they carried it into the apartment and deposited it near the window where Sylar’s beat-up old workbench had been. The replacement, a craftsman’s table made of dark, gleaming wood, held several drawers below on both sides, a wide middle drawer and an array of cubby holes atop two small drawers on the surface. Between the two sets of cubbies were rows of polished brass hooks.

“Did you build this?” Sylar walked around the piece, admiring it and unable to contain his awe at the workmanship.

“No, don’t give me that much credit. I found it in a thrift shop. I fixed it up a bit, sanded out the scratches and refinished it, polished the handles.” Peter smiled shyly up at him. “You like it?”

“Yes. Very much. Thank you.” Sylar restricted his feedback because his voice was playing tricks on him.

“I’m glad. There’s more. Be right back.” Peter went back out to the hall and returned with two large, clumsily wrapped packages which he placed on the new workman’s table. Sylar unwrapped the larger of the two to find a toolbox. Inside were brand new tools, some of them basic handy-man items and the rest the kind of precision tools used for repairing timepieces. All of them were removed from their packages and neatly arranged inside the tool box.

“I figured you could keep some of them in the workbench for your clocks and stuff and the rest might come in handy for when things around here need fixing.” Peter explained. “I’m not sure I got everything you’d need. I had to steal a few of your old tools to find things to compare them with. So if you noticed some things of yours were missing, that’s the reason. I put everything back where I found it.”

“Yes, that makes sense. I’d assumed I was misplacing things. That was clever of you.”

“Thanks,” Peter said, pride evident in the way his posture noticeably straightened to make him stand taller.

“What’s in the other package?” Sylar asked, glancing at the smaller item.

 “Open it.” Peter stood nearby while Sylar unwrapped it methodically to reveal an antique wooden mantel clock with a gilt dial. “Ansonia Alhambra Model. Circa 1882 or 1883. Pendulum mechanism,” he intoned. “It’s beautiful. Where did you find it?”

“That’s cool that you recognize it. It was in an antique store uptown. It’s broken, of course. Took me awhile to find one that didn’t work that I thought you’d like.”

“It’s perfect. And you’re right about the irony. Especially since the man in the story sold his pocket watch to buy combs for his wife. Do you remember? She cut her hair to buy him a new chain for his watch.” Sylar gazed at Peter, a smile beginning to form on his lips.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly make a big sacrifice like that. Hope you don’t mind that I didn’t cut my hair.”

“Mind?” Sylar reached out to run a hand through Peter’s hair at the temple. Having mussed it, he busied himself with smoothing it back into place, avoiding eye contact while he performed this intimate gesture. It was merely an elaborate excuse to touch Peter’s beautiful hair. “No, I don’t mind at all. People don’t usually give me Christmas presents.”

“Well then, we’ve started a new tradition. Merry Christmas, Sylar.” A small, crooked but genuine smile appeared on Peter’s face and Sylar marveled at being the cause of it.

“Is it really, Peter? Is it a Merry Christmas for you?” Sylar searched Peter’s face for the answer that he had waited and hoped to hear.

“Yeah, it is.” Peter’s words were accompanied by a gentle squeeze of Sylar’s arm, followed by rubbing, a pat and more rubbing before he withdrew his hand. Suddenly the apartment seemed too small for the two of them and all the complications between them. The weight of everything they had inflicted upon one another and endured was heavy on Sylar’s chest. The characteristic smirk that formed on his lips was self-preservation, a pressure valve to release the tension.

“I knew I should have gotten some mistletoe.”

***

 


End file.
